Finding Laura (29 page)

“Poor thing,” Laura murmured. “It must have nearly torn her apart.”

Dena sighed. “That comes across in her letters. If there had been no child, she wouldn’t have hesitated, but she
couldn’t bear the thought of losing her daughter. In the end, of course, the choice was taken out of her hands. Her husband found out about the affair—nobody says how—and literally threw her out of his house with no more than her clothing and a few personal possessions—including the mirror, which, by the way, he shattered when he slammed it down on the sidewalk outside their house.”

So that’s how it was broken
. “She went to Brett?”

“Nowhere else she could go. She had no family within hundreds of miles, and no friends that would have taken her in. This was before the turn of the century, remember; outsiders didn’t interfere between a husband and wife. Brett tried to protect her as much as he was able, moving her into his house but bringing in a sister as chaperon. Nobody bought it, I’m afraid. If they weren’t sharing a bed every night, they might as well have been as far as the gossip was concerned. According to public opinion, Shelby was definitely in the wrong—and they made her pay for her sins. So did her husband. He won custody of the child, smeared Shelby’s reputation to hell and back, and as soon as the divorce was final, he left New York, refusing to tell her where he was taking her daughter. Shelby never saw the girl again.”

“Jeez. Which one of us said this mirror seemed to be cursed?” Laura wondered, her gaze going to the mirror lying facedown on the coffee table beside her sketchpad.

“I don’t remember, but it seems to have been prophetic. Want to hear the rest?”

“Just tell me there’s a happy ending, dammit.”

“Um … well, yes and no. Shelby and Brett moved to San Francisco, mostly to escape the scandal, and they were married there in 1900. For a few years, things were as good as they could have been; Shelby missed her daughter terribly, but she adored her husband, and soon they had two sons of their own.”

“A few years?” Laura frowned, trying to grasp some elusive knowledge in her mind. “Wait a minute. Wasn’t it about that time that the big earthquake nearly destroyed San Francisco?”

“Afraid so. 1906. Their home was destroyed—and their younger son was killed. Shelby was injured as well—something about her arm, but it’s not clear exactly what happened to her. She complained in a letter or two later on that some nights she couldn’t sleep for the ache, but there’s no mention of her losing the arm or being disabled. Anyway, she and Brett managed to rebuild their lives and raise their remaining son. They had a lot of ups and downs, but their love never wavered. He had to travel some in business, so they wrote lots of letters to each other—I’ve got a few here for you to read—and they’re so filled with devotion and passion that it’s … almost embarrassing to read them. I felt like an intruder, you know? It’s funny … I’ve never felt that way before in researching.”

Laura was silent for a moment, then asked, “What about the end of their story?”

“Well, they lived together for nearly thirty years and died within days of each other in 1928 when a flu epidemic swept through the city. Brett was sixty-one; Shelby was sixty.” Dena hesitated, then said, “You know, I have to say, I’d never really thought about romantic love very much. I mean, I’ve had my share of dates and crushes and lust—but never love. Maybe I never really believed in it. But these lives the mirror has passed through since it was made … it just seems to me that those couples loved each other in a way I can’t even imagine.”

“I know what you mean,” Laura murmured, conscious of an ache deep inside her.

There was a little silence, and then Dena chuckled. “Hey,
you
didn’t meet somebody special when you bought the mirror at that estate sale, did you? Hands
reaching for it on a shelf, eyes locking in fateful knowledge …”

Laura managed a laugh, glad that she hadn’t filled Dena in on any of the details of that day, including Peter Kilbourne’s visit and subsequent murder—and very glad that Dena was oblivious to current events and never looked at newspapers less than forty or fifty years old. “Nobody was anywhere near when I found that mirror,” she said lightly.

“Too bad. I was hoping you could continue this love thing the mirror seems to have going on.”

It was because of the mirror that I met Daniel. And the way I felt when I first saw him …

Laura pushed the turbulent questions in her mind aside and managed to speak lightly yet again. “You don’t know if it
went
on beyond Shelby and Brett,” she reminded the young researcher. “Or do you?”

Back in her brisk mode, Dena replied, “No, not so far. The Galvins’ son, Andrew, inherited his parents’ property when they died. He continued to live in San Francisco and never married. Died himself, an accidental drowning victim, at age fifty in 1952. So far, I’ve found out that his estate was split up, much of it going to charity. It may take me a while to track down where the mirror went, since it wasn’t mentioned specifically in his will or letter of instructions.”

“Thanks, Dena. You’ve done a great job.”

“Hold the applause until I track the mirror to the Kilbournes’ door. In the meantime, I’ll leave these notes and things in an envelope with the security guard at your building, okay?”

“That’ll be fine.”

“And I’ll call when I have more info. Good night, Laura.”

“Good night, Dena.” Laura cradled the receiver and sat for a time looking at nothing. Then her gaze shifted to the mirror on the coffee table. Lovely, but such an ordinary
kind of thing, and so unobtrusive for something that had seemingly caused—or sparked—so much drama in so many lives. She didn’t think Daniel had even noticed the mirror when he had been in here earlier; his gaze had never wavered from her. She leaned forward and picked up the mirror, turning it this way and that. She looked at her reflection, her gaze fixing as it always did on a point past her own shoulder at the room behind her.

Even though I know it’s him I was looking for, I can’t stop looking. Can’t help expecting to see him there. As if he should be. As if the room is simply empty unless he’s in it. And when I see him in a mirror, it’s as if … as if I’m caught up in something beyond my control
.

She put the mirror back on the coffee table, her fingers lingering to absently trace the intricate pattern stamped into the brass on the back. Then she leaned back with a sigh.
Think of logical things
. The history of the mirror, while fascinating and certainly moving, had so far revealed no connection whatsoever with the Kilbournes. In fact, as far as she could see, investigating the mirror had done little except to stimulate her already agitated imagination and fill her head with far too many irrelevant thoughts.

Irrelevant …

She got up and moved back to the window, too restless to sit any longer. Rubbed her arm absently. The storm was coming, she knew. It would be a bad one. Another hour, maybe two.

Come to me tonight. Please
.

Had he lied to her about having been in Scotland? Why would he? Such an insignificant thing, after all. And that bothered her most of all, that he might lie about such a small and unimportant fact, because there were so many bigger and much more important things he could lie about, and Laura no longer trusted her ability to know when he was telling the truth. She hadn’t doubted him when he’d said he had been to Scotland.…

God, so many questions. Had he told her the truth about the struggle between him and Amelia? Was he in the right, struggling to protect his family and preserve their way of life when Amelia would selfishly and recklessly squander their wealth? Was he being kinder than he had to be by allowing Amelia to present the appearance of authority even though that meant frustration and conflict for him? And was that all that was going on, this struggle for power? What, if anything, did it have to do with the murder of Peter Kilbourne?

And how was
she
tied in to all this? Was Daniel right in suggesting that Amelia had brought her into this house merely to be a distraction for him? If so, if that was all it was, then why was Laura so sure that he was somehow being very careful with her, holding something of himself back with utter deliberation and control? Because it wasn’t real?

Come to me tonight. Please
.

No, she didn’t doubt his desire. His face had remained impassive as always, but she had felt his gaze tonight, his awareness, his … absorption in her. Once or twice she had even had the unsettling idea that she was reading his mind, seeing in hers images from their time in the attic and knowing he was thinking about that. It had required all the control she could muster to keep still and silent, to pretend indifference in the presence of his family.

But Laura had no idea if his desire was anything more than the physical, if his preoccupation with her was anything more than the sexual intensity common in a new love affair. Love … He had said they had made love. But she thought that would probably be his chosen phrase irrespective of any emotions involved; he would never be crass or vulgar given his upbringing and his reserved nature, and she doubted a more clinical description would appeal to him. So it meant nothing.

At some point, she thought, determinedly analytical,
he would no doubt refer to them as lovers, and that would mean nothing as well. Something she should keep in mind.

Come to me
.

His voice was in her head, low and rough, taut with a soul-deep longing she felt herself. How could that not be real? How could he pretend so well if he felt nothing of this gnawing need that tormented her, this overwhelming yearning to be with him whatever the risk or the cost, to feel his powerful hands on her, his body close, so close to hers.…

Come to me
.

Laura turned jerkily from the window and paced restlessly. A glance at the clock on the mantel told her it was nearly eleven. Still too early for bed. Desperate for something to occupy her attention, she took another shower, washing her hair this time, since she hadn’t earlier. That took up ten minutes or so, with another twenty demanded to blow-dry the long, heavy mass of her hair and brush it until it gleamed.

She found herself smoothing on skin lotion in the scent she had used for years, and followed that by putting on her prettiest nightgown, long, emerald green, and silky, topped by a matching robe so sheer it was hardly worth the effort.

That was when she admitted consciously that she was going to go to him.

The admission made, there was nothing to do but wait. Laura sat on the couch in her sitting room and listened, hearing the wind from time to time as the storm neared. Hearing, faintly, footsteps outside her door at least twice as someone passed on the way to his or her room. It was a Friday night, when at least several of the family might be counted upon to be up—and probably out—late, but the worsening weather and lack of plans meant that everyone was home and likely to seek their own rooms by midnight.

Amelia, at least, always turned in by midnight, she had told Laura. Not that she slept much at her age, but there were always letters to be written or a good book to be read, and she enjoyed solitude. So she had said.

Laura listened to the little clock on the mantel chime midnight, just seconds before the full fury of the storm broke over the house. Thunder rolled and boomed and cracked, lightning flashed like strobes, and rain sheeted down, pelting the windows from time to time as the wind snatched at it.

She waited a few minutes longer, trying to hold on to patience by reminding herself of how embarrassing it would be to encounter someone outside her room dressed the way she was. But even that possibility couldn’t do much to make her cautious. By quarter past midnight, with the storm still raging outside, she was slipping from her room and out into the quiet, deserted hallway.

There was a lamp near the top of the stairs to light this main section of the upper floor, and when Laura moved silently on thin-soled slippers into the west wing hallway, she found two more small lamps dimly illuminating that corridor. Almost holding her breath, she fixed her gaze on Daniel’s door at the end of the hall and tried to move even more quietly as she passed other closed doors.

She was still several feet away when Daniel’s door opened. Laura had no idea if he had heard or sensed her coming, or if he had merely assumed she would, but he was obviously unsurprised. His gaze traveled swiftly from her slippers to her face and then remained there, intent, his eyes a little narrowed. He stood back, holding the door wider so that she could come into his room, and when she had, he closed it softly behind her.

Laura barely noticed gleaming mahogany furniture or masculine decor, or even that the only light in the room came from a small lamp by the bed and the gas fire burning warmly in his fireplace. All she noticed was him. He
had discarded his suit jacket and tie and had rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt loosely on his forearms. His gleaming black hair was a bit disheveled, as though he had been running his fingers through it, and there was tension in his face.

“I can’t stay all night,” she said huskily, determined to exert at least that much control over this.

He reached out and pulled her against him. “Then we’d better take advantage of the time we have,” he murmured, his hands curving over her bottom to hold her even closer.

Laura caught her breath and slid her arms up around his neck. “You knew I’d come, didn’t you?”

“How could I know? I hoped.” His lips brushed her cheekbone, then covered her mouth hungrily.

Everything in Laura’s mind, all the baffling questions and uneasy speculation, stilled in that moment. She didn’t think, didn’t want to or need to. She only felt. Her body molded itself to his, her mouth came alive to match his longing, and fire raced along every nerve in a shattering sensation that was almost but not quite pain.

She felt herself lifted and carried, felt the softness of his bed beneath her, but she didn’t open her eyes. He was still kissing her, deep kisses that seemed like a drug she craved and could never get enough of. She was vaguely aware of shifting obediently to help him rid her of the nightgown and robe and her slippers, and knew her own fingers coped eagerly with the buttons of his shirt and then his belt and his pants. Still, she didn’t open her eyes or say anything at all beyond murmuring his name when his mouth finally left hers to trace a searing path down her neck and over her breastbone.